When will they invent tracking devices for remote controls?

About 10:15pm last night, I decided I was going to watch television. Maybe Big Brother, followed by Tears, Tiaras and Transsexuals; something to lull me into dreams about how lucky I am not to be an absolute attention whoring reality TV contestant and / or a pretty lady with manbits. Anyway. I got upstairs, switched on the TV and up popped the last channel I'd had on. Which was, apparently, Magic FM.

Now, I love Magic FM as much as the next drunk. In fact, at 3am in a cab home (if it's not on already) I'll actively request that the driver retune his radio into Magic FM's late night love songs; a back to back extravaganza of cheesey, romantic, golden oldies to sing along to before falling asleep until you have reached your destination.

But at 10:15pm on a sober Wednesday night, it's just not what I'm after. I wanted Big Brother, or some choice trash. Well, "want" is a strong word. A "quick sniff" is perhaps more apt. So I glanced about for the remote (can't change the channel without it on my digibox)...which was nowhere to be found. I played the "if I was a remote control, where would I hide?" game. It wasn't in my bed, on my bean bag, behind a speaker or on any cluttered surface. And "Yesterday Once More" by the Carpenters was not helping my plight.

I quickly turned my bedroom into something resembling Beirut circa 1990, scattering clothes, electrical equipment, bed covers and make up bags all over the gaff. No sign. By this point, it wasn't so much that I wanted to watch Big Brother, it was the fact that I couldn't watch Big Brother even if I wanted to. I couldn't watch anything - just the frozen Magic FM logo. I tried my sister's remote control. I switched the box on and off again. No luck. After 20 minutes of solid searching, I eventually found it in my unpacked suitcase, where I'd thrown it the night before. Game over, yes?

No. The damn thing still wouldn't work. The past 20 minutes had made me angry, but now I'm positively fuming. I'm pressing every god damn button on that piece of plastic, and no go. Batteries! Batteries! Now I'm downstairs, trying to find AAA batteries but of course there's none to be found. Eventually I do what any other irate frustrated woman denied her quota of trashy TV would do: went and nicked the ones from my sister's remote. AHA! Victory is mine!

Except it still didn't bloody work.

If there was a frustration richter scale, I'm now completely off the radar. I'm not just angry at not being able to change the channel, I'm pissed off with the makers of the digibox. I'm annoyed at my dad for buying me this model. I'm completely baffled and worse still, Leona Lewis is now crooning at me from the corner, telling me it'll get better with time. OH JESUS.

So I go to the back of my TV. Unplug everything that it's possible to unplug, switch off everything that can be switched off...and wait. Then I turn it all on again. And hey presto! It works. I revel in being able to change the channel, Channel 4 is my oyster.

To summarise:

30 minutes to find the remote.
5 seconds to realise Big Brother is still the vat of steaming silage I'd usually part with an organ to avoid.

Brilliant.